


About as Useful as Cupping a Corpse

by girlinstory



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Coming Out, First Kisses, Fix-It, Hurt Richie Tozier, Hurt/Comfort, IT Chapter Two Fix-It, M/M, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-22 08:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlinstory/pseuds/girlinstory
Summary: When Richie got caught in the Deadlights, he saw Eddie's death.





	1. Richie

When Richie got caught in the Deadlights, he saw Eddie's death. Impaled. Pale. Blood coming from his mouth, painting his lips red, like Richie in that one SNL skit about drag queen brunch, and man, it took him _way_ too long to realize he was gay.

Richie saw himself, wearing Eddie's ridiculously clean sweatshirt, crying more than a U.S. Speaker of the House John Boehner. Even though he wasn’t the one about to die, Richie saw his life flash before his eyes, and it was a downer.

So Richie reached up, grabbed Eddie by the edges of his slightly-less-clean hoodie, and flipped them over. It was hard, Deadlights-drunk and slightly concussed from the fall. Eddie may have been short, but he was pure muscle. Of course he was. Fucking health freak. Only Eddie could make being ripped _nerdy_.

There was a moment, perfect, except that it was only a moment. Richie was hovering over Eddie’s body, legs tangled, fingers grasping. Eddie was still smiling. Maybe he thought Richie was about to kiss him. Stupid, Trashmouth. Why would Eddie be smiling?

Then Richie looked down and saw a spider leg sticking out of him. He was taller than Eddie, so it was more stomach than chest, but Richie was definitely impaled, and Eddie wasn’t smiling anymore. He might have been screaming. Everything had gone a little fuzzy.

So maybe Richie _was_ the one about to die.

He closed his eyes, because they were the only thing left that he could control. Richie probably would have pissed himself, but even his bladder was frozen in fear. The edges of his vision started to darken, like the vignette tool in his phone’s photo editor. In another second, any second, he was going to be unconscious, and he wouldn’t be able to control anything. Including his bladder.

There was something he had to say first.

Maybe, “Sorry for peeing on you.”

While he was still thinking it over, he died.


	2. Eddie

Richie was legally dead for three minutes and twelve seconds, by Eddie’s count. It was hard to count seconds and compressions at the same time, but brain cells began to die after four to six minutes without blood, and Richie only had one to spare. 

If he had been impaled any higher, even by inches, chest compressions would have been both useless and messy. Except for a small duodenal tear, the “rebar” had somehow slipped between his major organs without so much as touching his spine. There was nothing left to remove, so his doctors used the Kocher maneuver to mobilize his duodenum and repaired the injury with transverse closure in two layers. The entrance wound was debrided of dirt, lavaged, and bandaged. 

Bangor General nursing staff wouldn’t tell them anything, because they weren’t family. The Losers were told to contact Mr. Tozier’s family for permission, which Beverly called, “Beurocrapshit Tomfuckery,” and Bill called, “About as useful as cupping a corpse.” Bill explained it was a Yiddish idiom, but that led to a whole new series of questions, including what exactly went on when Stan sat Shiva for his grandpa. 

Bangor General nursing staff wouldn’t tell them anything, until Eddie held up his wedding-ringed finger and began a full-blown Kaspbrant about their civil union, and how they’d been planning to renew their vows ever since 2012, because Richie wanted the perfect wedding, but Eddie kept _telling _him they should do it before Trump took office, and now they were never going to get married, and Trump didn’t even have anything to do with it. 

He didn’t have to fake the tears. 

Eddie sent the rest of the Losers back to their hotel, promising to call them as soon as he had more news. They didn’t want to leave, but they were used to listening to him. Big Bill may have been their unofficial leader, but Eddie was the one who took care of them. 

And Richie was the one who took care of him. 

By then, he had been moved out of the ED and into ICU. He had a room to himself, although the door was just a curtain. Eddie sat in the chair by Richie’s bed, holding his hand. Both of their scars were gone. 

Bev came back with clean clothes, so Eddie could finally wash off Richie’s blood. He took a couple of pain meds— the ones for his cheek. He didn’t take them because his cheek hurt. 

Of course, Eddie had just hit REM sleep when Richie woke up. For a moment, they just sat there, staring at each other, blinking the sleep out of their eyes. 

“Don’t try to move.” Eddie hit the call button. “The doctor should check you out first.”

Richie just kept blinking up at him. 

Eddie pressed the call button again. “I swear these things are plac— You know what? I’m going to find a doctor. You st—”

Before he could finish speaking, before he could even finish standing up, he had an armful of Richie. He was shaking so hard that Eddie started to worry about seizures. Then he heard the sob. Richie was usually a silent crier, though the Losers never knew why, when he was always alone in that big house. Nothing had changed. Now it was just a big penthouse. 

He lifted Richie, transferring both of them to the bed with as little trauma to Richie’s abdomen as possible. Eddie was suddenly grateful for all the burpees his trainer made him do, and it took him _way _too long to realize he was gay. 

“Shh, shh, shh, Richie. It’s okay. You’re okay. You gonna’ be fine. It’s dead. It’s dead, Richie. Everyone is fine, and you’re gonna’ be fine, and...”

Eddie didn’t know how long he talked nonsense, running a hand through Richie’s damp curls and down his spine, careful to go no lower than his upper back. 

Richie just kept saying his name. 

Eddie wondered if he would ever run out of realizations. He licked his lips. “Richie, the Deadlights... You saw everyone die? Or just me?”

“You.” 

The word was barely intelligible, but Eddie had always spoken Trashmouth. At least, he thought so until Richie mumbled what sounded like, “The hoodie.” There wasn’t anything special about Eddie’s hoodie, except that it didn’t have blood on it. 

A nurse pushed back the curtain and Eddie got a stern talking-to for potential exacerbation to the patient’s wounds. 

That reminded him.

He needed to call Myra.


	3. Eddie

Myra forgave him for being gay.

Actually, she forgave him for being "confused" by his childhood friends, which was pretty fucking ironic, considering Eddie had the biggest case of compulsory heterosexuality since Miss Piggy. The divorce would be messy, but Eddie wasn't so scared of messy anymore. He was in love with Richie Tozier, after all.

Eddie wasn't so scared of that either. He'd faced the possibility of permanently losing Richie, and well, relativity. There was that quote by Einstein: "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute."

Only in this case, it was a pretty boy.

Richie shouldn't have been pretty. He was a forty year old man who didn't know how to work a dishwasher. When Eddie got back to the room, he was propped up in bed, squinting against his myopia and asking the nurse for a sponge bath. He was the most beautiful thing Eddie had ever seen.

"Eddie Spaghetti," Richie cooed, somehow able to recognize the blur in his doorway. "You can give me a sponge bath. Nurse Ratchett here says that's only for the coma patients, which is ridiculous. They can't even _enjoy _it."

"Don't call me Eddie Spaghetti." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And don't call her Nurse Ratchett. Sorry."

The nurse, whose real name Eddie hadn't bothered to remember, laughed. "It's okay. He's on a lot of drugs."

"No," said Eddie. "He's always like that."

Richie grinned, like he was so glad to be known, even though he was sitting there, with red-rimmed eyes, like clouds around the moon. Everyone thought Richie's fear of clowns was so ironic, but the thing about clowns, any kind of clown, was that they lied. No one smiled all the time.

That was why Eddie always responded to Richie, even if it was just to say, "Don't call me that." He didn't really mind the nicknames. He just wanted Richie to know someone was listening.

"Richie..." Eddie started, not knowing how he was going to finish, but before he could, the door opened and a bright light flashed in his face.

Eddie blinked against it, thinking Deadlights, thinking not Richie, thinking, not again.

It wasn't It, but it was there for Richie. Someone in the waiting room had recognized him, overheard Eddie's lie, and decided that what they really needed in their lives was a mobilized paparazzi unit.

"Eddie..." Richie said, when the last of the reporters had been forcibly removed by Nurse Berger, whose name definitely deserved to have her name remembered, possibly put on a plaque of some sort, or at least a thank you card. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Why do they think we're married?"

"The hospital wouldn't tell us anything." Eddie shrugged, like it didn't matter. "I didn't think anyone would find out."

"Oh," said Richie. "I'm sorry."

"What? Why? I'm the one who should be sorry!" Eddie didn't mean to raise is voice, but that was how conversations with Richie went. "You're the one they're going to be writing about!"

"Well, you're the one with a wife!"

"You're not even gay!"

"Yes, I am!" Richie shouted. Then, "Fuck!"

He reached for the cup of water Nurse Berger had left by his bed. His hands were shaking. Eddie wrapped his fingers around Richie's, holding the cup steady while he drank. When Richie was finished, he let Eddie take the cup.

"Thanks. It's these hospitals. Always so fucking cold."

Eddie hummed non-committedly. He rubbed his hands up and down Richie's arms, bare beyond the sleeves of his hospital gown.

"It's like they're trying to make us sick so we stay longer. It's a conflict of interest. No, it's a conspiracy. It—"

"It's not a conspiracy," Eddie interrupted, before he could really get on a roll. "Viruses predominate during the winter months in this part of the world, and the extra time spent indoors can also increase risk of infection."

"Still a hypochondriac, huh?" Richie's mouth was a thinner line than usual. "You know, the first step is admitting you _don't _have a problem."

"Did Nurse Berger do a concussion check? You hit your head when you fell, and irritability can be symptomatic of a concussion."

"It can also be symptomatic of spending time with you," said Richie. Then, in a voice so quiet that Eddie couldn't believe it came from the Trashmouth, "Thanks for not hating me."

His eyes looked even bigger in a face so bloodless, peering up at Eddie from under his lashes, like that would be enough to hide the emotion in them.

Richie cracked a grin. "You know, any more than you already do."

"I could never hate you," said Eddie. "No matter how hard you try."

The grin got wider. "That sounds like a challenge."

"It is _not _a challenge."

"Wait," said Richie. "Wait. Why'd you say— You said that _I'm_ not gay, like—"

Eddie shrugged again, like it didn't matter, like they weren't two peas in a fucking pod. The question, he could almost hear Richie ask, was what kind of pod.

"Must be something in the water."

Richie laughed so hard he nearly tore his stitches.


	4. Eddie

Eddie knew he had forgotten— the normal kind— something important, but he didn't know what, until the Losers burst through the door to Richie's room. The curtain really added to the drama of their entrance, but not so much as when Beverly pointed an accusatory finger at Eddie and said, "You absolute fucking _turkey_."

"You guys are late," Richie's grin was lazy and only a little fake. "What took you so long?"

"Mr. Kaspbrak-Tozier here didn't bother to tell us you were awake," said Ben. "We have to find out from Twitter."

"I know that," said Richie. "The paps were here five minutes ago."

Beverly wrinkled her nose. "Paps?"

"Paparazzi," he said. "Paparazzo or paparazza. I can never remember which one's masculine and which one's feminine. Sure, they usually hunt in packs, but there's a smear joke in there somewhere. So. What took you so long?"

"Bill was driving," said Mike.

Bill would happily ride Silver through a four-lane intersection fast enough to beat the Devil, but put him behind the wheel of a car and he turned into old Mrs. Kersh from Poor Town— the real one, not Gumby Golem.

"I didn't drive _that _slow," he said.

Mike clapped a hand on Bill's shoulder. "Yeah, he must have been really worried about you, Richie. He kicked it up to 30 in a 40 zone."

"So what are you going to do about the scandal of the century?" asked Ben, once the laughter died down.

"Don't call it that," said Eddie.

Richie's eyes darted in his direction, which was normal enough, but they were still filled with an emotion Eddie couldn't quite name. He wasn't exactly an expert. For the first four decades of his life, the only feelings Eddie would admit to were: worried, anxious, and pants-shitting terrified.

"I'll explain everything— well, not _everything_, but... Do you think this will fit in a Tweet?"

"Um," said Eddie, and then everyone was looking at him, not just Richie. "You could… not?"

"Why… not?"

Eddie couldn't tell if Richie was mocking him. It wasn't the first time. He cleared his throat. "You would be doing me a favor."

"A favor?" Richie's voice was hoarse, even though Eddie had been making sure he was well-hydrated.

"Yeah. Well, I didn't get around to mentioning this but… uh, Myra and I are getting a divorce." Before the Losers could decide whether to be sympathetic or congratulatory, he kept going, "The thing is: She's going to fight it, because she doesn't believe I'm gay. This could help convince her."

"It would be better if you really sold it." Ben was tugging absentmindedly on his ear, and for a second Eddie could have sworn he was channeling Stan. "You would have to be seen together in public, you know, acting like a couple."

"Kissing?" Eddie would have sounded like his twelve-year old self, even if his voice hadn't gone up about ten octaves. That was all the octaves.

Ben took pity. "Holding hands would probably be sufficient."

Beverly never took any pity. "Don't think we're going to let you get away with coming out like that. I demand at least a few tears and one group hug, minimum."

Eddie blushed and glared at Richie, but Richie just said, "Can I get a raincheck on the hug? Nurse Berger threatened to cath me if I keep exacerbating my injuries."

"At least she stopped blaming me," said Eddie.

"Yeah, that picture really sold your story," said Mike. "You may not have to hold hands after all."

"Picture?"

"You didn't see? They got one—" Bill pulled out his phone. "Here."

There was nothing untoward happening in the picture. Of course there wasn't. Nothing untoward had happened. It was all very… toward.

Nurse Berger was bent over the whiteboard at the foot of the bed, but neither of the men in the picture were looking at her. Richie was sitting up in bed, a dopey smile on his face. It could have been attributed to the pain meds if Eddie weren't standing next to his bed, looking down at him with what could only be described as heart eyes.

"Fuck," said Richie.

Ben glanced at Eddie and frowned. "Trashmouth, there are a lot of things you have to be embarrassed about, but that picture isn't one of them."

"I know, but— Fuck." Richie sighed. "I know. It's just… I've kept this secret for forty fucking years, and this is the too-much-information age. Coke's secret formula is no longer secret. The Big Mac's Special Sauce is no longer special. KFC's eleven original herbs and spices are trending. They had added five more, which went viral, in more ways than one. Not even the Illuminati can keep a secret anymore."

He paused, but only for breath.

"Oh, I'm gay too, by the way. Eddie already made the something-in-the-water joke."

"Okay," Bev looked pissed. "Two group hugs. Richie, you can take a rain check. The rest of you, huddle up."

Eddie knew better than to argue with Beverly. He huddled up.

"So you're totally in love with him, right?" She whisper-asked, like they were football players, talking about… whatever football players talked about when they huddled up. Eddie was pretty sure it had something to do with Snickers.

"Do you think the vending machines here have Snickers, or would a hospital only have healthy food? What? I haven't eaten in almost forty-eight hours. Don't look at me like that."

They looked at him like that.

"Fine. Yes. I'm totally in love with Richie fucking Tozier. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," she deadpanned. "Do you want our help or not?"

"Help? With what?"

"Getting the guy, dickwad."

"The— What? But— Guy? Richie? Richie doesn't…"

"Oh, boy." Bill looked disappointed in him, like when Eddie had to ask what the turtle in his books meant. "Eddie, you're the one we weren't sure about."

Mike started ticking off fingers, which Eddie could only tell because Mike's hand was wedged into his side. "He calls you cute. He pinches your cheek. He bought you _shoes_ when your Guccis were too impractical for a hike through the Derry sewer system. The fucking _hammock_."

"Oh," said Bill. "Don't forget the time Eddie spilled his popcorn on the Bowers gang, and Richie dumped a whole soda on their heads so they would think it was him. They gave him a black eye that lasted three weeks."

"He said that came from—" Eddie took a deep breath which didn't help, because it triggered another childhood memory. '_C'mon, Eds, just breathe. Just like the doc taught you. In through your nose, out through your Cuban cigar.' _Eddie still hadn't been able to breathe, but only because he started laughing. "That's just Richie being Richie."

"He _almost died to save your life_," said Mike. "You think that was a joke?"

They didn't even know about the Deadlights.

Eddie shook his head so hard it made his cheek-hole hurt. "No. That's not what I mean. I mean… Richie's just brave."

"Honey," said Beverly, and things must have been bad if even she was taking pity on him. "He's not brave about some things."

"I can feel you talking about me," Richie called over their heads. "You'd better be planning my get-well-soon gift. I want World Wildlife Donations in my name, but the kind where you get a stuffed animal. I want a red-footed booby."

"You are a red-footed booby," Eddie said, as the Losers broke formation, and Mike started rubbing the feeling back into his hands.

"You okay, Eds?" asked Richie. "You're looking a little sick to your abs."

"What do— How do you even know I have abs?"

There was that smile again, and Eddie didn't know how he could have missed it.

Scientists had discovered thirty-nine distinct smiles, but only twelve of them had anything to do with happiness. People smiled when they were sad, nervous, embarrassed, afraid, flirtatious, passive aggressive, or anywhere there might be cameras.

Most smiles were fake. Like the Botox smile, so called because too much Botox could paralyze the zygomaticus muscles. The opposite of a Botox smile was the Duchenne smile, so called because the French were confused by emotion.

Anyone could Smize— Well, anyone except the Kardashians and the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch. A true Duchenne was different.

Genuine.

It was the smile Richie gave to Eddie over, and over again.

"What did you think kept me conscious while you were manhandling me out of the sewers?"

Eddie kept getting interrupted, so instead of answering, he kissed Richie Tozier right on his trash mouth. 


	5. Richie

He pulled back when Richie didn't respond.

During their dinner at Jade of the Orient, Bill had lectured the Losers about the types of narrative conflict: Man Against Man, Man Against Nature, etc. Richie's greatest conflict had always been Man Against Mouth. Sometimes it seemed almost autonomous from the rest of him, possibly sentient, and definitely antagonistic.

By the time he got control over it, Eddie was halfway to the door-curtain. Bev had a hand on his shoulder, but he had apparently begun prying her fingers off of him one by one, like a cartoon character about to drop someone over the edge of a cliff. He was up to her middle finger.

"You're alive," said Richie.

Eddie let go of Bev's finger, and she risked recapture by flipping him the bird.

"I think we just established that," he said quietly.

"And you like me." There was no inflection in Richie's voice whatsoever. For the first time in his dumpster-fire of a life, he wasn't trying to fuck with Eddie, but he was still mid-battle with his mouth. The Big Damn Hero versus the Powers that Have Always Been, fighting it out, probably in the rain. MacGuffin in sight. Damsel in distress. Well, maybe not that one, but—

"I love you," Eddie said, even more quietly.

"And you expect me to believe this is real?" Richie's mouth must have gotten the upper hand, because his voice cracked on the last word.

Eddie rolled those big brown eyes, but he took a few steps back into the room. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, like he was worried about germs, even though for the first time in his dumpster-fire of a life, that probably wasn't his biggest concern.

Second time.

"Seriously?" asked Eddie.

"Seriously," said Richie, and he sounded serious, which usually only happened when he was joking. "I didn't see the clown die, and for all I know this is Pennywise going for the long con! The kissing— That's not helping. Like, don't stop, but that's not helping."

Eddie scootched his butt back until he was sitting at the foot of the bed. Richie looked a little wild, like he'd only just stopped himself from pulling Eddie back by the ankle. Then Eddie was reaching for his own ankle— his new Keds, the ones Richie had bought him because Guccis weren't designed for sewer spelunking. He was slipping one off, leaving his foot in its even newer hospital sock. They had treads on both sides, in case he got confused. Then, so gently that Richie barely felt it, Eddie foot-slapped his face.

The Losers were, deep down, decent people, so they pretended Richie's sobs were laughter.

Eddie didn't.

He said, "Are you going to cry during sex too?" and then Richie was laughing and sobbing at the same time.

His friends cashed in that rain check, piling on top of him, painstakingly careful. They held him together until he felt like he was going to stop shaking apart without them. It was quiet for a few minutes, a rare occurrence when all members of the Losers Club came to disorder.

"Wow," Ben said eventually. "Richie Tozier is speechless. You know, Eddie, with great power comes great responsibility.

"Thanks, Uncle Ben." He and Richie spoke in unison.

"That's disgusting," said Bev. It was only slightly undermined by the fact that she said it at the exact same time as Ben.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Eddie.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Richie.

"We all told you, like, a hundred times," said Bill.

They ignored him, more out of habit than anything else.

"I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to tell you," said Eddie. "I wasn't even brave enough to tell myself until now. Mom was always talking about AIDs and how—"

Richie held a finger to Eddie's lips, mostly for an excuse to touch him. "Whatever you're about to say, turn around and say it to Bevs."

"To— What?" Eddie's nose scrunched up. It was fucking adorable.

"You wouldn't. So don't say it about yourself. You both had emotionally abusive parents. People struggle to break that cycle of abuse, even without clown-induced amnesia."

He shot Bev a quick look to make sure she was okay with being used as an example for his Twenty-Seven-Years-After-School Special. Her eyes were shining, but so was her smile, or at least the teeth portion of it. Ben had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. They would have such unfairly attractive babies, the fuckers.

Everyone was going to think Eddie was his trophy husband. Or his sugar baby. Or—

Eddie smiled, derailing every train of thought Richie ever had.

"Thanks, Richie."

That reminded him.

"Besides, you're still braver than you think. After all, you kissed me."

"You didn't kiss back," said Eddie, reproach coloring his voice, pink coloring his cheeks.

"Do over?" Richie asked hopefully.

Eddie sniffed. "Rain check."

"No! I'm convalescing, Eddie Spaghetti. I need you to kiss it better."

"Have they forgotten we're here?" asked Mike.

"I don't see why that would have changed," said Bill.


	6. Chapter 6

"Ladies, gentlemen, and variations thereupon. Thank you for coming tonight. My name is Richie Tozier. I'm here to make you pee yourself."

It was six months before Richie could stand in a spotlight without flashbacks. The D Tour was kicking off with a performance at Madison Square Garden, because that was what happened when you suddenly started averaging two scandals per month (three if you counted the Dick Pic Incident; it was just a picture of himself captioned 'Dick Pic' but apparently some People couldn't take a joke.)

"Everybody's been asking about my hiatus, so let's get this over with. I had a midlife crisis. Most of my friends were sure I'd die of scurvy before thirteen, so it is an accomplishment, but instead of getting a sporty red convertible or growing a mustache, I forgot how to English on live TV."

"I went back to my hometown, because that was where I always expected to die of embarrassment. While I was there, I ran into my old— Don't let this fool you into thinking there's anything remotely restorative about Derry, Maine, okay? No, don't cheer. None of you are even from Derry. You know how I know? You're still alive. Derry almost killed me. I got trapped in a collapsing building, and a piece of rebar impaled me through the stomach. Yeah, ow. Thank you. My friends keep making corn dog jokes. I'm the funny one, in case you couldn't tell."

"No, the only redeeming thing to come out of Derry is Edward Kaspbrak. He said I could tell you his name. Don't stalk him. That's my job."

"I'm gay, in case you haven't heard. Thank y— Wow. This is the opposite of the reaction I always expected. No heckling? At all? I'm actually a little disappointed. You guys don't even have one tomato? What? ….Of course I do. One of my best friends was a Boy Scout. See, here's my— You didn't believe me, did you?"

"You may remember the paparazzi outing me while I was still in the hospital. I never officially responded to that— Eddie says shit emojis don't count. So here we go: Thank you."

"Don't get me wrong, you suck. Don't out people. Like, I kept that secret for thirty years. Do you know how much self-control that took? There were so many gay jokes I couldn't make."

"But if it weren't for the paparazzi, I might have never kissed Eddie Kaspbrak. We were both pretty repressed. He was actually married. To a woman. Who was exactly like his mother. I swear on her grave— I can do that now, because she's my mother too. Although I can't make 'your mom' jokes anymore, which sucks, because they're approximately all of my repertoire, and I'm finally performing my own material. My— Oh, tha— Wow... Thank you."

"Anyway, my husband is in therapy for his Oedipus complex. Just kidding! We're both in therapy. It's okay to not be okay, kids. He's glaring at me because I split an infinitive. Actually, it might have been the Oedipus complex joke. Kidding again! He approves all my material. So, you know, blame him."

"One thing I've learned in therapy is that when you have an irrational fear, you should practice something called 'opposite action.' It's basically exposure therapy, but it sounds less litigious. So for example, I'm afraid of clowns, which is a completely rational fear, but it's getting so bad that I can't even eat at McDonald's anymore, and that's like 90% of my work lunches. Don't tell Eddie."

"Anyway— Sorry. At least when I wasn't reading my own material, I stuck to it. ADHD brain, people. As long as I'm on the topic— probably about five more seconds, I also have PTSD. And AAA. That's not a disease, I just have batteries in my pocket. They're for the— Get this— the talking clown doll my husband bought as part of my exposure therapy. I also have a shirt that says, 'Free Hugz.' That's with a Z. Eddie thinks it's funny. He doesn't have to do exposure therapy, because by marrying his mother, he already exposed himself to his biggest fear."

"I wore the shirt to Pride— It's the only thing I own these days that has color in it— and people thought I was doing that free-dad-hugs thing. I got more human contact on that day than the previous three decades combined. Like, the only time I touched something warm was when I cleaned up after my neighbor's dog."

"So Pride— Pride was pretty great. Especially when you consider my second biggest fear, which was— I was afraid of coming out. That was rational in a town like Derry, but it isn't anymore. Especially not now that I have a smoking hot husband to brag about."

The spotlight swung away from Richie and landed in the front row. It was unrehearsed, an improv by the light tech, which would normally be no big deal, but the only thing worse than having the spotlight on him was having it on Eddie. Richie felt his breaths get shallow. Amplified by the mini mic, it sounded like pervy breathing.

He looked down and met Eddie's eyes. They were crinkled up with amusement, love, and like, forty years of worry. Eddie still worried, and Richie still repressed, but they were getting better.

Richie ramped up the pervy breathing anyway; he never claimed to be highbrow.


End file.
